


The Quick, the Dead, & the Ugly

by Isabelle_Saphir



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: F/F, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isabelle_Saphir/pseuds/Isabelle_Saphir
Summary: Drearbruh is practically a ghost town in the Dominicus Territory, but the return of a prodigal child threatens to upend the lives of everyone in the territory. If it doesn't end them first.Shootouts! Unhealthy Relationships! Horses!CW for suicide, blood, violence, and nonconsensual (non-sexual) interactions.
Relationships: Gideon Nav & Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	1. A Town Had Two Daughters

Drearbruh wasn’t quite a ghost town. Ninth House Mining had managed to bribe someone at Western Imperial to get the railroad to pass by the run-down settlement, and the occasional trains that stopped to pick up ore and drop off supplies served as enough of a lifeline to keep the town limping along for as long as the mine kept producing stygian iron. Drearbruh was one of the only towns in the entire Dominicus Territory that could produce the ore, which, if God had cared about Drearbruh, would have meant that the town was a bustling settlement on the verge of becoming a small city. God did not care about Drearbruh. Nobody cared about Drearbruh. Drearbruh ore was wretched, and everyone knew it. So Ninth House Mining managed to cling to existence from year to year, and Drearbruh managed to cling to Ninth House Mining.

That was perfectly fine with Harrow. She’d given up on the town ever since the last mayor had shot his wife and hanged himself, just like the town had given up on her. Nobody had been interested in an orphan except the whorehouse, whose ancient madam had seen some promise in the scrawny teenager. Harrow had survived by being quick with chores, quick with her feet, and quicker still with the ability to impale wandering hands to the wall with a phalanx. She’d worked hard enough to get room and board—and to avoid the horrible necessity of doing anything more than working the bar, cleaning, and doing whatever odd jobs were needed. Aiglamene’s occasional reminders of the importance of building actual savings, and the other work that was readily available, had all fallen on deaf ears. Nobody touched Harrowhawk Nonagesimus. By the time she was eighteen, Aiglamene had stopped trying to coax her into the upstairs trade. Harrow worked like a horse, kept out of trouble, and didn’t complain about unseasoned gruel or beans for every meal. And if she took free time to go off into the desert and practice her craft, well, that was her own business. Sheriff Nigenad could outlaw Raised in town all he liked, ignorant oaf that he was, but the Territory was a free-for-all outside of the pockets of civilization where people gathered together to hold out against the night.

She was coming back from one of her dusty excursions when she saw Nigenad riding towards her. She waved her hand and let the small army of assorted skeletal wildlife following her crumble into dust. “What do you want, Nigenad?” she asked.

“Evening, Miss Nonagesimus,” he said. Idiot. He gave the same wary look he always gave her. It was the look everyone gave her. Harrow had been one of two children to survive the dark week, and the other had used the exact one act of intelligence she’d been alloted in her life to leave as soon as she was old enough to shoot a gun. That left Harrow, resident bone witch and freak of nature, alone as town scapegoat. She didn’t care; it meant fewer people bothered her. “I’m going out tonight. Won’t be back for a few days. Keep the town out of trouble, will you?” Harrow curled her lip at the jibe and was pleased to see Nigenad shut his mouth. “Right,” he said, awkwardly. “Well, then. Goodbye.” She didn’t waste time watching him go. There were chores to do.

A few days passed. Chores were done. Nigenad didn’t return. Night was coming on, now, and Harrow had bar duty. She was pouring Mayor Crux a drink and studiously avoiding the group of miners who were openly leering at her. Crux was muttering to Aiglamene. Aiglamene was largely ignoring him. Someone was playing the off-key piano, badly. Harrow was idly considering turning the ivory keys into razor blades. All in all, a normal evening at the saloon.

A sharp crack made everyone jump.

“Gunshot,” said Crux, as if it weren’t obvious. She sneered at him and shoved the whiskey his way. “Go check it out, girl.”

Harrow felt her lips thinning. “You must be drunk already, Crux. First: This is the saloon. Your general store is across the street. Second: I don’t work for you. Third—”

“Go check it out, girl,” said Aiglamene. Harrow gritted her teeth and pushed past the madam. Of course they’d send her to investigate the madman shooting off guns. She was the expendable one. The hated one. The bone witch.

Harrow hated Drearbruh. She hated every single person who came for imposing themselves upon her life without asking, and she hated every single person who left for not taking her with them. The fact that she would die before she truly admitted that to herself was, as far as she was concerned, utterly immaterial. What was not immaterial was her hatred. She felt it like a hand choking her, like a blistering coal behind her eyes, like a leaden weight in her lungs. She felt it so intensely that she was perpetually astonished that the people around her, idiots though they were, didn’t see it seeping out from her pores. She wore hatred like a mask, and all it got her was a temporary reprieve from the constant burden of having to deal with other humans. The mask was firmly affixed as she stepped out of the saloon and looked at the woman in drab clothing riding the biggest piebald she’d ever seen. The rider was wearing a hat slung low over her face, and had a pistol raise into the air. Harrow jumped at the sharp retort as the woman fired another shot into the sky.

“You,” said Harrow, as she stepped onto the dirt road. “No shooting in town. Sheriff’s rules.” The figure didn't acknowledge her, which angered her more than than the fading ringing in her ears did. “Excuse me,” she said, again. In a few quick strides she was astride the woman. “I’m talking to you.” That's when she noticed the silver badge on the woman's breast. A nine-point star. The woman looked down and met Harrow's dark eyes with her own leonine gaze. Harrow nearly staggered as she recognized those eyes. Too late, she saw the fringe of red hair sticking out beneath the broad hat.

“Good to see you too, Harrow,” said Gideon Nav. “Let me bring you up to speed. I'm the Marshal. Ortus is dead. Heralds are coming. And you're my new deputy.”


	2. Sentenced to Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Miss Nonagesimus Finds a Compelling Reason to Accompany the Prodigal Marshal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: suicide, blood, (nonsexual) noncon, violence, HtN spoilers

“Let me bring you up to speed,” said Gideon Nav. “I'm the marshal. Ortus is dead. Heralds are coming. And you're my new deputy.”

Harrow laughed. Gideon flinched, which was immensely gratifying. “Go away, Griddle.” She turned to walk away, but Gideon managed to swiftly maneuver her horse between Harrow and the bar. When had the hulking idiot learned how to ride? “I said, go away.”

“This isn’t a game. You’re coming with me. Drearbruh is in danger.”

Harrow sneered. “What makes you think I’m playing a game, _Marshal_? I’m not your deputy. I’m not going to be your deputy. I’m a whorehouse worker with a job to do. Either pay me or go away.”

Gideon just laughed. “Nonagesimus, you tend the bar and sweep the floor. The only thing you’ve ever shared your bed with is a skeleton. If you worked upstairs, you’d be batting your eyelashes at me, or wearing something other than dirt on your face.”

“Go to hell.”

“No need.” Gideon took off her hat, ran a gloved hand through her messy red hair, and sighed. “Hell is coming this way.”

“Hell is already here,” Harrow muttered. She moved to get around the horse and jumped back just in time to avoid its kick.

“Careful. Crux has a temper.”

Harrow dusted herself off and glared at Gideon. Then: “You named your horse after Crux?”

“He’s a dick and I think about shooting him regularly. It fits.”

Harrow had to admit, reluctantly, that this was eminently reasonable. “Let me go back to work. Aiglamene needs me.”

“Damn it, Harrow, the whole territory needs you. The whorehouse can wait, and if I promise you that if I’m saying that then things have well and truly gone to shit.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Aiglamene. Harrow peeked around Crux-the-horse to see her and Crux-the-human on the front porch of the saloon. “Gideon Nav.”

“Ma’am,” said Gideon, as she turned the horse to face the pair. She tipped her hat and gave Aiglamene a grin. “Good to see you. Old enough to be a customer, now.” Harrow managed to scurry past the horse and dart into the saloon. She’d just gotten back to wiping down the bar when Crux, Aiglamene, and Gideon entered. The first two stood in a corner, muttering to each other. The last, unfortunately, sat down at the bar.

“Go to hell,” Harrow said again, hoping against hope that this time it would stick in the empty cavern Gideon called a skull.

“Nonagesimus—”

“I said go to hell.”

“Watch your tongue, girl,” Aiglamene growled. “Serve the marshal.”

Gideon gave Harrow a strange look that looked almost like pity. Harrow didn’t need that. Harrow didn’t _want_ that. “What do you want?” she snapped.

“I want you.”

Harrow slammed her hands down on the bar. Aiglamene and Crux jumped. Gideon didn’t so much as flinch. “ _I_ _’m not for sale_.”

“Nonagesimus, I would literally break you. Literally. I’m not saying that for emphasis. You would shatter. I want you to come with me.” Gideon paused. “On a horse,” she added. And then: “I need to work on my phrasing. Look, just listen to me, for once in your perpetually pissed off life.”

“No.”

Gideon sighed. “There are maybe five different ways this goes, and all of them end up with you leaving Drearbruh with me.”

“If you aren’t going to drink, I’m going to clean. I’m not listening to you. I’m not talking to you. And I’m absolutely not going anywhere with you.”

The marshal was quiet for a moment. Then she got up and left. Harrow smiled. Gideon had been the only one in this godforsaken town who had been able to understand how much Harrow hated her. Apparently, she’d kept that skill.

“Always liked that woman,” Aiglamene said in an approving tone. Crux grunted. Harrow scowled. She went to the corner and grabbed a broom to dust, which left her remarkably unprepared for the surprise of turning around and seeing Gideon Nav pointing a gun directly at her head.

“Outside,” Nav said. “All of you, please. And get the town.” Aiglamene and Crux looked at each other and headed out.

“Going to shoot me, Griddle?” Harrow said, as she put the broom aside and did her best to muster up a facade of bravery.

“Not yet. We’re going outside.”

“You don’t have the courage to shoot a single person in this town, you sentimental—”

“Shut up. I’m not shooting you outside. I’m _taking_ you outside, so you can stop being a complete moron for once in your life.” Harrow bared her teeth, and Gideon cocked the gun. “Actually, that’s a lie. I absolutely will shoot you somewhere painful and survivable.”

There was something about seeing that small cylinder pointing directly at her head that drained the caustic wit from Harrow’s tongue. She went outside, with Gideon at her back. She could feel the gun pointing against her. No time to raise any constructs before Gideon would pull the trigger. There was already a crowd outside. Of course there was. Nothing ever happened in Drearbruh. This would be the talk of the town for years.

“Well, Nav. You’ve gotten me outside. Now what?”

“Now you get on the horse and we leave. Or, ideally, you take this damned deputy badge, put it on your stupid black clothes, and _then_ we leave.”

“I have a job—”

“Aiglamene, there’s a pouch in my saddlebags,” Gideon interrupted. “White. Open it for me, will you?” The madam moved to the horse and started rummaging in the saddlebag. It didn’t take long for her to produce a small bag so white it practically gleamed. A single black _I_ marked it. She opened it and whistled. “The money in there is for you, if you’ll let me have Harrow. Hell, the bag is yours, if you’ll let me have Harrow.”

Harrow whirled around, gun be damned, and glared up at Gideon. “I am not for sal—”

“Done.” Harrow could only stare as the woman who’d housed her for the past eight years walked into the saloon to put the money away. When she returned, Harrow spat at her feet.

“I hope it was worth it, you backstabbing filth.”

“It was,” Aiglamene said simply. The words hurt more than they had any right to. She’d never liked Aiglamene. Aiglamene had never liked her. But she’d lived there nearly half her life. Surely that deserved some sort of loyalty.

“Come on, then,” Gideon said, and holstered her gun. Harrow punched her in the nose, as hard as she could. For good measure, she tore a fingerbone loose from her necklace and hurled it at the marshal. It sunk deep into her shoulder. The crowd erupted into murmurs. Harrow had never actually used her power in the town. It was a rumor that was as good as fact, but there was a difference between a rumor that everyone knew to be true and a truth displayed before everyone’s eyes.

“Stay the hell away from me,” Harrow said. “ _All_ of you, stay the hell away from me.” She started backing up. “I’m leaving. I’m going, and none of you are going to follow me. If you try, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Gideon ripped the bone out of her shoulder and tossed it to the ground, then stepped squarely on it with her boot. “I,” she announced to nobody in particular, “am _so_ fucking tired of this.” In a few long strides that seemed to take less than a second, she was in front of Harrow. Harrow raised her hands, and Gideon punched her squarely in the stomach. Harrow folded over with a wheeze. She felt Gideon shove her, and she toppled back into the dust of the road. Gideon’s gun was out and cocked again. This time, there was no mercy in her eyes. “Harrowhark Nonagesimus, resident of Drearbruh, citizen of the Dominicus Territory. I hereby charge you with crimes against the natural order for the active and deliberate practice of bone witchery. As marshal, I am duly appointed by Governor Gaius to summarily convict and sentence you for this crime.”

Harrow stared dully at Gideon. So this is how it was going to end. A bullet between the eyes for the crime of existing. Fitting. She thought about how many people she could kill with the fingerbones still hanging from her neck. Not enough. And it wouldn’t matter. She was fast with her magic; Gideon was faster with her trigger. “Fine,” she said. “Get it over with.” Gideon dismounted from her horse. She was even taller than she had been when she’d left. Harrow felt the venom of her hatred spasm as the marshal walked up to her. No one said anything. She didn’t bother to look around. She knew what she’d see: relief that the witch was finally being dealt with, fear that she’d manage to do one last act of evil before she died. “To hell with all of you,” she snarled, clenching her fists. “All I ever wanted was to be _left alone_.”

Gideon was directly in front of her, now. Harrow craned her neck up to stare defiantly into her executioner’s eyes. “Last chance, Harrow,” Gideon said in a voice so quietly Harrow doubted anyone else could hear. “Please don’t make me do this. Be my deputy. Take the badge.”

Harrow mustered every ounce of hatred she had and congealed it, black and choking, into the sentence that best described her feelings. “ _Fuck_ your badge, Gideon Nav.”

Gideon sighed. “Then I’m sorry. I really am.” Then she took out a knife and buried it to the hilt in Harrow’s heart. Harrow felt the pain, dimly. She dropped to her knees, and Gideon followed her, cradling her head as her vision started to dim. Then, horribly, Gideon started to whisper. “Be not against me, to desire that thou should leave me and depart: for whithersoever I will go, thou shalt go: and where I will dwell, thou also shalt dwell. My duty shall be thy duty, and my charge thy charge. The land that shall receive me dying, in the same wilt thou die: and there wilt we be buried. The Lord do so and so to thee, and add more also, if aught but death part thee and me.” Gideon pulled the knife free of Harrow’s breast, and in an instant the ache of death transformed into an agony of life. Fire tore through every inch of her body. She felt the blood in her mouth spill out onto her chin. She felt it boil. Harrow screamed. The bones around her neck snapped loose of their leather binding and shattered into pieces, which began to spin through the air like blades. Dimly, she was aware that Gideon was still holding her, despite the storm of razor-sharp bone that whirled around her. Dimly, she heard screaming beyond her own. She didn’t care. The ground trembled as tiny fragments of bone erupted from the earth and grew into entire skeletons, which collapsed into even more shards of bone as soon as they formed. Gideon was holding Harrow to her as Harrow spasmed in a pain she did not know was possible. Eventually, the screams ended. She was crying into the marshal’s shirt. She tried to push away, but her limp arms wouldn’t permit her to do anything except suffer the unspeakable touch of Gideon. She was lifted into the air and saw the devastation of the street. A few errant bloodtrails led into dark doorways, which a distant part of her mind found grimly satisfying. The rest of her mind was screaming in horror.

“You bound me,” she whispered. A few thick clots of blood oozed down her chin from her nose and mouth. “You _bound_ me, you—”

“I don’t have time for this,” Gideon said, as she hefted Harrow onto the horse. “You can scream as we ride.” Harrow tried to dismount. Then she tried to simply fall. Then she kicked the horse. It bucked, which sent Harrow tumbling backward into Gideon’s chest. The marshal had mounted without her noticing. “Cut it out,” Gideon said. “You know how the binding works.”

“Don’t you dare touch me,” Harrow said, as she pulled free from the detestable contact. “I _will_ kill you, Gideon Nav.”

“I know,” Gideon said. She sounded sad, for a reason Harrow could not begin to understand, much less possibly care about. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Harrow tried to murder Gideon three times before they stopped for camp. Gideon just sighed each time. When they finally made camp, Gideon asked Harrow to collect kindling.

“I am going to rend your body into pulp,” Harrow said by way of response. “I am going to turn your ribs into knives and flense you from the inside out. I am going to—”

“Are you going to be like this the whole way?” Gideon asked. She sounded very tired. She moved out to go gather cow chips. Harrow followed.

“I am going to do everything that remains within my power to ruin you, you slaver, you wretch, you unspeakable _slime_. Unbind me.”

“You know I can’t do that, Nonagesimus. Even Augustine can’t do that. You’d need the Governor for that pardon.”

“Then take me to him, idiot.”

“No. I need your help.”

“You bound me,” Harrow hissed. “You were supposed to kill me, and you bound me, and now you expect me to help you.”

Gideon turned and stared at Harrow. “I was supposed to _kill_ you? Harrow, I saved your life.”

“You _stole_ my life!” This came out as a hoarse shriek.

Gideon didn’t say anything more after that. She didn’t even say anything as Harrow, having watched her painstakingly build a fire, stomped it out and kicked the embers into the grass in the vain hope of starting an inferno that would consume them both. She simply looked at Harrow and went to sleep. Harrow waited until she could hear the marshal snoring before she sat up, breathed out, and let her witch-sense take her beneath the grassy plain. It took little time to find what she needed, and less still to bring it to the surface. The snap of the bull’s horns separating from its skull was distant enough so that it didn’t even interrupt Gideon’s snoring. Harrow closed her eyes and brought the horns forward. Faster. _Faster_. She opened her eyes just in time to see the spears of bone whip past her to impale Gideon.

Or, as it turned out, to silently detonate into a fine powder as soon as they came near the marshal. Harrow bared her teeth in a wild rictus of hatred and gestured with her hand. She could see a sheen of blood on the skin. The cloud coalesced into a choking smog and descended on Gideon. The marshal’s breath blew it away into the wind, where it dissipated beyond even Harrow’s reach. Harrow wiped her face. It came away bloody. Good. If Harrow could not kill the monster who had taken her life from her, she’d make the possession an empty victory with her own death. She dug deep beneath the soil. Deep. _Deeper_. She felt her limits. She shoved her way past them. Blood dripped from her nose, her eyes, her ears. Her skin sweated blood. The last thing she felt was the weight of her body collapsing on the cold earth. The last thing she thought of was the fire. The wild redness, the warmth, the intensity. _I wish I could have died warm_ , thought Harrow, as the darkness seeped into her mind and vision alike, _but I_ _’ll settle for dying on my own terms_.

She woke up wrapped in a blanket. The night hadn’t ended. Part of her dimly considered screaming in helpless rage. Part of her dimly considered trying to kill herself again. Most of her realized that the blanket was warm, and soft, and familiar. She hated herself for it. Gideon was sitting in the chilly darkness, looking up at the stars. A blood-soaked rag rested next to her.

“I hate you,” Harrow said.

“I know,” Gideon said, without moving. “I hate me, too.” She kept looking up at the sky. “Try to get some rest. I need you awake tomorrow.”

Harrow contented herself with thoughts of murder as she drifted into a warm, comfortable, and wholly miserable sleep.


	3. On A Pale Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Miss Nonagesimus Lectures the Marshal Upon Issues of Agency & Finds a Most Hospitable Bed for the Night

It was almost dawn when Harrow woke up. She was wrapped in a blanket which did not belong to her, which was mortifying, and she was comfortable in it, which was loathsome.

“Morning, partner.” Gideon said. She was making coffee over a fire. The woman turned to give Harrow a small, quirked smile.

“I am not your _partner_.” Harrow tore off the blanket and threw it at the fire. It unfolded and landed less than half the distance to the flames. “I am your _bondswoman_.”

Gideon’s smile faded. “The least of my crimes,” she said in a quiet murmur. She gave Harrow a wide, false grin. “Yes, Harrow. You are bound to me. So we ought to come to some understanding of what I need from you. Why don’t you pack up the blanket and come drink some coffee?”

Harrow gritted her teeth and prepared herself to resist the inevitable compulsion. She found it astonishingly easy and rewarded herself with a sneer at Gideon’s expense. “You should have learned more from Augustine, Nav.” For emphasis, she stood and kicked dirt onto the fire. Gideon rescued the coffee with remarkable alacrity. “I’m going to fight every single thing you do. And I’m going to win.”

“Are you done?” Gideon asked.

“No. I’m going to make you regret ever coming back to Drearbruh—”

“—seriously, goal long since past accomplished—”

“—and I’m going to make you regret ever laying a finger on me.”

“Like I said.”

“You don’t get it, do you? _You can_ _’t control me_.”

“Harrow,” Gideon said, as she rolled her obscenely muscled shoulders forward repeatedly, “I asked you to pick up a blanket and drink coffee. I am not ordering you to do chores.”

Harrow stopped to consider this, then scowled. “Pick up your own blanket.” She dragged the blanket in question closer to the fire and sat down on it in a small act of rebellion that, even to her, seemed petty and childish. There was a long silence. “Well?” she asked, her tone waspish. “You wanted to talk. So go ahead. Give excuses. Explain why you dragged me out of my home.”

“You hated Drearbruh.”

“I hate you more.”

Gideon took a long drink of coffee. “I don’t blame you.” She offered Harrow the cup, which Harrow promptly swatted onto the ground. “Seriously? Seriously. This is stupid. You’re being stupid, and you’re usually stupid, but you’re never _this_ stupid.”

“Tell me not to, then. Tell me to obey your every order, oh benevolent bondholder—”

“Harrow, _shut up and listen_.” Harrow shut up and listened. Gideon ran a hand through her hair. “Thank you. God. You talk so fucking much. Here’s the situation: there are heralds everywhere. The Governor is running out of Marshals to take care of them. Another Frontier Beast is going to emerge any year now. We’re going to take out as many heralds as we can and try to figure out where the bastard is digging its way up from before it turns half the Territory into even more of a shithole than it already is. Ground rules: I’m not going to make you do whatever I want. You don’t get to hurt yourself unless it’s for the mission. You don’t get to _let_ yourself be hurt unless it’s for the mission. You don’t get to kill yourself, period. Fuck you for trying last night, by the way. That was bullshit. You don’t get to hurt or kill me unless it’s for the mission. And you don’t get to leave. You’re stuck with me until we’re done. Got it?”

Harrow said nothing as she attempted to contain her rage. It was made easier by the fact that she couldn’t rip the marshal’s lungs out with her own ribcage.

“Good. Let’s get going.” Gideon stood up and looked down at Harrow. “Are you all right?” Harrow pointed at her lips. “ _Shit_ ,” Gideon said. “I’m sorry, Harrow, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to… you can speak. Jesus.”

Harrow stood and walked to Crux-the-horse, leaving everything behind. “Gideon?”

“Yeah?”

She mounted the horse. “I pray to God that when I’m in hell, I’ll see you burning with me.”

Gideon wrapped up the blanket and lashed it to Crux’s saddlebags. She took the opportunity to pat Harrow’s knee. “We’ll be burning side by side, sugarlips.”

* * *

The sun blazed bone-white in the bleached sky. Harrow had always worked inside during the day, and she could feel her untanned skin starting to sting in the unrelenting heat.

“Give me your hat,” she told Gideon.

“What? No. I’m not letting you wear my hat. Get your own hat. Make one out of bones or something.”

“I can’t make a hat out of bones, you idiot. It would have holes in it. You ordered me not to let myself get hurt. I’m getting hurt.”

“Are you seriously getting a sunburn? It’s fall.” Harrow said nothing. Gideon sighed and handed over the ridiculous wide-brimmed thing. “Please do not ruin my hat. I like my hat. It is a good hat, and the fact that I am merely asking you not to do this is a measure of trust that you should be thankful for _goddammit Nonagesimus._ ”

Harrow had, of course, promptly shredded the top of the hat with several shards of bone. “I don’t need the cover because of my hair,” she said, as Gideon let loose with an exceptionally satisfying litany of curses, “and I might get heatstroke if I have no ventilation. I’m simply obeying orders, my most magnanimous mistress—”

Gideon took a long, deep breath. “That is the worst insult ever. You are terrible at insults. You are even worse at insults than you are at taking care of hats.”

“Let me go and I won’t ruin any more of your things.”

“Don’t needlessly damage any more of our things, Harrow. Mine or yours.” Gideon’s voice was serious. Harrow jerked as she felt the new command settle in through the bond.

“You said—”

“I’m doing my best to give you the most freedom I possibly can, Harrow, but every single time you see a loophole you rush after it like a goddamned goblin who’s full of spite and moonshine. If you would just be _normal_ —”

“If I did everything you wanted?” Harrow hissed. She twisted around to glare at Gideon. “Yes, if I did everything you wanted, exactly as you wanted, you wouldn’t have to _force_ me to do things. Congratulations, Marshal. You’ve discovered the justification for slavery.” Gideon’s jaw twitched, and Harrow turned back with the sensation that she’d somehow won an important exchange. The pleasure from that stayed with her for the rest of their travels that day.

* * *

The attack came as Gideon was setting up camp, shortly after sunset. “Harrow,” she said, abruptly, but Harrow had already tasted the greasy, metallic tang on the air. “ _Harrow_.”

“I know,” Harrow snapped. “Shut up and get ready.” She closed her eyes and let her spirit slip deep beneath the earth. Nothing but vermin. She’d have to use another knuckle-bone… no, wait. _There_. She smiled joylessly. She could hear their chittering now, hear the clacking of mandibles. The stench was overpowering. One apparently stepped inside a mental line Gideon had drawn, and the marshal’s rifle shrieked out an echoing blast. Harrow wiped a trickle of blood from her ears. Stygian. Gideon had a gun made out of stygian. The particular implications of that horror were put aside as the heralds took the sound of the soul-wrought rifle as a cue to charge.

“They’re here,” Gideon said. Her voice was matter-of-fact.

“So am I,” said Harrow, as she opened her eyes and stood. It would take time. She would need to make time. She tore loose one of the phalanges around her throat and threw it as if it were a dart. It split, grew, unfolded like a desert flower. In seconds, a towering construct of bone stood before her. It was beautiful.

There was another screaming crack of noise as Gideon fired again. “God,” she said, as she saw Harrow’s creation wade into battle. Hemolymph spewed as a bladed arm neatly severed a herald in two. A herald wrapped itself around the back of the construct and promptly exploded into gore as Harrow forced massive spikes to grow from the construct’s back. “God, fuck,” she elaborated. She shot again, and again. The ground rumbled. “Big one coming!”

“No,” said Harrow, as the beautiful construct she’d built finally failed under the relentless onslaught of the filthy creatures. The phalanx darted back to her waiting hand with a simple gesture. She smiled again, this time with genuine pleasure. She could feel the familiar sting of the bloodsweat; she’d pushed herself tonight. “This one is mine.”

The horse skeleton simply appeared where a mass of heralds had been mere moments earlier. Pieces of the creatures poured down in a grisly rain. Harrow felt her smile grow into a wide, crazed grin. She didn’t care. This was hers. This was who she was. This was her destiny, the destiny for which damnation patiently awaited her soul. The horse galloped toward her, and with an awkward scramble, she was atop its back. A twisted series of pelvises shifted under her to form a saddle. The moment was soured by a twitch of awareness; Gideon needed help. She reached out once more, and countless bones erupted from the ground flew to the phalanx still clutched in her hand. The whip formed in seconds.

“Harrow!” Gideon yelled, as heralds surrounded her. “Goddammit, Nonagesimus, help—oh, fuck me.” The horse nearly knocked her aside as it trampled through the disgusting creatures. Harrow’s whip sliced through dozens more.

Soon enough, it was over, and they were surrounded by the nauseating remains of countless heralds.

“Harrow,” Gideon said.

“Yes?”

“What in the fucking world is that?”

Harrow looked down at her horse from where she sat atop it. Unearthly white fire blazed in its eye sockets, illuminating the the area in harsh and pitiless tones. “This is my horse,” she said. “You’ve seen horses before, haven’t you, Griddle?” Dismounting was not quite as graceful as she had hoped.

“Its head is on fire.”

“I borrowed some essence from the bond to strengthen it.”

Gideon’s hand went to her holster. “Put it back. Now.”

The compulsion washed over Harrow, and she smiled nastily as it failed to latch onto anything. “I can’t do that, Griddle. Besides, it was in service of the mission, wasn’t it? Now we can take more things with us. And you don’t have to worry about your horse getting tired carrying both of us.”

“It’s a goddamned monstrosity.”

“It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever done with my life.”

There was a long silence. Gideon stared at her. “You actually believe that, don’t you?” she said at last.

Harrow immediately felt as though she had given an important possession away. She didn’t like the way Gideon looked at her. “What I believe is none of your business, Gideon Nav,” she said. She wiped her forehead with her hand. “Now, unless you intend to order me about again, I will retire for the night. The stare Gideon gave her as the horse’s ribcage expanded to accommodate Harrow was worth all the blood staining her palm. “Oh.” She took off Gideon’s ruined hat and tossed it at her. “I don’t think I need this, after all.” The sudden outrage writ plain on the marshal’s face as a smooth osseous membrane spread from the ribs to safely ensconce Harrow in a seamless cocoon of bone—well, that was worth a great deal indeed.

The only damper on her mood was that, after a few minutes of listening to Gideon’s muffled ranting about the ridiculous and inexcusable follies of bone witches, she was forced to privately admit that Gideon Nav was, in fact, her superior at insults. But the bone beneath her was smooth, and the air was warm, and she could not smell anything that reminded her of Gideon. Harrow fell asleep with a small smile on her face.


	4. The Warden of the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which the Marshal and Her Travelling Companion Encounter Two Individuals of Considerable Infamy

Harrow woke up to a particularly unpleasant jostling sensation. She let the cocoon of bone dissolve away and stared in disbelief through the ribs of her steed. Gideon had tied a rope to her construct’s cervical vertebrae and was leading it along a dry riverbed. This was more than outrageous; it was impossible. “Stop!” Harrow yelled, and was promptly rewarded with a mouthful of dust. She coughed and spat, then covered her mouth with her sleeve to avoid the worst of the dirt. “Griddle, you oaf!” No response. Fine. She’d simply have to open up her horse’s ribs and time her jump properly.

She did not time the jump properly. As Harrow groaned in the dirt where she lay, she heard hoofbeats nearing. “You never were one for athletics, were you?” Gideon asked her. The marshal spat off to the side. “Stop lazing about. We’ve got places to be.”

Harrow picked herself up and glared at Gideon. “You heard me yell stop.”

“Might’ve,” Gideon admitted.

“You don’t have the training, the ability, or the intelligence to work bone magic.”

“Guess not.”

“My constructs only obey my commands.”

“Probably should have thought of that before you stole life energy from me to make the thing.”

“You’ll replenish it,” Harrow snapped. She mounted the skeletal horse and adjusted the saddle to resemble a chair. Gideon just shook her head and maneuvered to untie the rope.

“Fucking hell, this thing has creepy eyes. Come on, then, your Bone-ificent Highness. If your throne is comfortable enough.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“As Your Occult Majesty demands, so do I obey.”

“Shut up, Griddle.”

Gideon snorted and handed Harrow some strips of leathery flesh as the horses started walking again, this time side by side. “Here. Have some jerky. Good to know nothing’s changed.”

“What do you mean nothing’s changed?” Harrow looked at the jerky dubiously before biting into it. She very nearly gagged at the intense flavor of salt, meat, and pepper, and she was forced to take enormous gulps from her canteen to keep her stomach from roiling.

Gideon sighed. “You were always such a little bitch when you were hungry.”

* * *

The riverbed had sloped downward, further and further, until they were in a narrow canyon. Their horses could still walk alongside each other, but it was a close thing. Harrow glared at Crux. She didn’t trust horses. She’d never trusted horses.

“Still don’t trust horses, huh?” Gideon asked. She grinned, then spat yet again. She’d been chewing on _tobacco_ , of all things, and the occasional whiff of the plant made Harrow deeply nauseated. She suspected Gideon knew this, just like Gideon knew about her and horses. “Remember that time we were kids and—”

“Yes,” she interrupted.

“Come on, Nonagesimus. You don’t even know which time I’m referring to. There were so many.”

“Any of them. All of them. I remember them, Nav.”

“Well, yeah. They were pretty hilarious. You’d go sprawling, and the look on your face…” Gideon laughed. Harrow’s face heated. Gideon had always been her superior in everything but intellect. Darling child of Drearbruh. Harrow had stayed, but it was Gideon whom everyone talked about, Gideon whom everyone missed. Harrow knew nobody missed her. She wondered if anyone had noticed she was gone. She wondered if Aiglamene had already forgotten that there used to be a quiet woman who kept the floors clean and served the patrons.

“You okay? I know it’s tough being away from home…” Gideon was looking at her with something approaching sympathy, and that was the worst thing of all.

“I wish everyone in that filthy hole had died in the dark week,” Harrow spat. “You first of all.”

Gideon’s expression went flat, which was cause for less bitter joy than Harrow had expected. “Would have made a lot of things simpler,” the marshal said. She spurred her horse forward and rode ahead.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“We’d both be dead and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

That wasn’t it. Harrow realized with a small degree of horror that she was now curious. Curiosity was the one thing that overrode all else. Curiosity had led Harrow to the old, crumbling church, to the locked crypt where the dead of the dark week had lain shamefully hidden from the world, to the pit within where she had committed the sin she could never speak of. If curiosity was enough to damn Harrowhark for all eternity, it was enough to override her hatred of Gideon Nav.

She urged her own horse forward with a thought. “Seriously, Griddle. Gideon. Marshal Nav. Whatever fits your absurdly sized ego.” Well. Curiosity was _almost_ enough to overcome her hatred. “You meant something more than that.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gideon said, which made Harrow’s need to know that much more critical.

“What? Survivor’s guilt? You’re a decade and a half too late for that. You never cared before. It’s something else. Something you learne—”

“Be quiet,” Gideon said, and Harrow was. Fury boiled deep in her chest, and she swerved to position herself in front of Gideon, who had abruptly stopped. “Get behind me, ass,” Gideon hissed, which was not the rage that Harrow was expecting. The marshal sounded concerned, which was almost strange enough to calm Harrow’s anger. Harrow swung around and came to a halt behind Gideon. She bared her teeth in a very quiet snarl, but Gideon didn’t seem to notice. “We aren’t alone,” Gideon started, before her hat was suddenly pinned to the canyon wall behind her. The two of them looked at the arrow keeping it there. Grey dove feathers. Strange. “Goddammit,” said Gideon, as she swung herself off her horse. “I liked that hat.”

Harrow was already dragging bones toward the two of them to form a shield when Gideon put out her hand. “You don’t need to do that. These are friends. Oh, and you can, you know. Move and speak and whatever.”

“I am not your servant to be commanded at your every whim,” Harrow snarled, this time with voice to match her bared teeth.

“No,” Gideon said. “You’re my bondswoman, which is worse in literally every way. I’d apologize for saving your life, but I reckon the only person who’s really suffering for it is me. Can you be _somewhat_ normal with other people, or do I need you to take a vow of silence for the next few days?”

Harrow took a deep breath. “I am normal,” she told Gideon.

“I really fucking wish you were, Nonagesimus,” the marshal muttered.

She elected to ignore this. “Who are we meeting?”

“We’re meeting the Gray Ranger and the Warden of the West.”

“Fine,” Harrow said. “When you feel like telling the truth, let me know.”

“She isn’t lying,” a woman said from behind her. Harrow whirled and flung a shard of nearby bone instinctively, which the woman knocked to the side in a blur of motion. “Don’t do that.” Harrow stared. The woman was dressed entirely in gray, from her wide-brimmed hat to her shirt and vest to her undyed denim trousers. The brown of her boots and of her skin were the only color to her. She was holding a sizable knife in her left hand, which quickly disappeared into a sheath on her belt. Her right held a truly massive longbow. Harrow was unsurprised to see the gray fletching on the arrows in her quiver.

“Outlaws,” said Harrow. “Such charming company you keep, Marshal.”

“They’re not outlaws,” Gideon said, absentmindedly, as she scanned the horizon. “Where’s the Warden?”

“Don’t call him that,” said Camilla.

“But he hates it,” Gideon said, and she gave Camilla a grin. Camilla snorted. “Want a ride?”

“Sure. We’re up the canyon a spell. Old Edenite camp, near a pass leading out of the canyon. Who’s the bone witch?”

“Bondswoman.”

“ _Harrowhark Nonagesimus_ ,” said Harrow, acidly.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Nonagesimus,” Camilla said amiably, as she vaulted onto Crux. “Camilla Hect. Don’t throw any more bones at me. Throw one at Pal and I’ll remove your fingers.”

“She’d probably just regrow creepy bone fingers,” Gideon said.

“I’m persistent,” Camilla said.

“So am I,” said Harrowhark, as she spurred her horse forward to glare at the woman. It had even less effect on the newcomer than it did on Gideon. “Who is ‘Pal?’”

“The _Warden of the West_!” Gideon pronounced dramatically.

“Shut up, Griddle.”

* * *

The Warden of the West was a tall, birdlike man with enormous spectacles who was engrossed in a book as they approached. A pistol was pointed at them more quickly than Harrow could fathom.

“It’s us, Pal,” Camilla said. “Put it down before you hurt yourself.” Gideon snickered. The man looked up and smiled.

“Marshal Nav! Always a pleasure. And—my goodness. Is that a bone construct, miss?”

“It self-evidently is,” said Harrow. “Who are you?” She turned to Gideon as the woman opened her mouth. “If you say ‘the Warden of the West’ one more time I will fuse your teeth together.

“Teeth ain’t bones,” Gideon told Harrow smugly. Camilla rolled her eyes and dismounted. Gideon and Harrow followed.

“They aren’t,” the man said in agreement. “But please stop calling me that. I do wish you’d stop reading those horrid pulp magazines. My name, Miss, is Palamedes Sextus.”

“You should see the way the latest one described Camilla. ‘The wild woman, clad only in gray paint’— _ow_!” Camilla had punched her in the shoulder. “Jesus, Cam. It was flattering.”

“Only to the incorrigibly lustful,” Camilla said calmly. The conversation between the two devolved into some form of ridiculous bickering. Harrow turned away and began to lead her horse away from the camp. She wanted nothing to do with any of the people there. A crunching behind her gave her notice that she wasn’t alone.

“I’m afraid I did not catch your name,” Palamedes Sextus said in an apologetic tone.

“I did not give it, Warden Sextus.”

“I despise that title.”

“Life is full of disappointments, Sextus.” She shot a glare at him and was disappointed to see him smiling. “What do you want?”

“Well, the name of the witch who can sustain a thanergetic construct indefinitely. I mean, your bone horse—” That was quite enough. Harrow wheeled and glared up at the man. And up. And up. God above, he was tall.

“I am perfectly aware of thanergetic theory, you condescending scarecrow, you—”

“Good,” Sextus interrupted with obvious excitement. “How are you maintaining the bonds without excessive entropic interference? Those sealings should have dissolved days ago. And the matter is wholly uncorrupted!”

So he wasn’t an idiot. He might even appreciate what she had done. Harrow smiled thinly. “The matter is whole. It was an entire skeleton at its construction. The bonds and sealings are infused with a stable thalergetic loop which draws from immediate surroundings.”

“You’re drawing _thalergy_ from the area? But the effect on the wildlife—”

“Is functionally the same as grazing, Sextus. If it blackens a meadow, it will be because it has been reduced to ash.”

“What was the incipient source? This would require a phenomenal amount of energy. W—Practitioners of thanergetic arts don’t have that lying around to spare.”

Harrow folded her arms and raised a single eyebrow.

“Shit,” Sextus muttered. “Well, you’d have figured it out sooner or later.”

“And you called me ‘bone witch.’”

“In my defense, not only is that the most common term, but few who do what you do are familiar with the underlying academic theory.”

“Nobody does what I do. Is that all, Sextus?”

“You have neither given me your name nor the source of the initial thalergetic infusion.”

“My name is Harrowhark Nonagesimus,” Harrow snapped. “I ripped as much thalergy from that wretched mongrel of a marshal as I could possibly take before I was forced to stop. I wish I could have drained it all. I wish I could have drained the entire Territory and left it as cold and empty as the Capital. Now, if I have satisfied your questions and your curiosity, kindly allow me to take my leave.”

The man watched her go with a thoughtful expression on his tilted head. The fool probably thought that it made him look intellectual. Idiot. He didn’t react to her climbing inside the horse, or the cocoon she wove around herself. She had no appetite for conversation. There was a sharp rap on the side of the horse, and Harrow tore open a hole to snarl at him.

It was the Hect woman. Harrow suddenly felt far less capable of intimidation. “Dinner’s at sundown,” Hect told her. “Don’t be late.”

“Is that all?” Harrow asked.

Hect chewed on a stalk of wheat between her teeth and spat. “Nav wanted me to tell you she’d make your horse sit on the fire and cook you out if you were a bitch about it.”

“And you decided to omit this information for what reason, exactly?”

“Reckoned the Marshal’s been treating you like a child when you don’t need it.” Hect’s strange not-quite-gray eyes bored into Harrow’s. “Was I wrong?”

Harrow was quiet for a while. “No,” she said at last. “Thank you,” she added.

“Sundown,” was Hect’s response. She left Harrow to her rest and her thoughts.


End file.
